Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Nobody blame Bush. Just be constantly reminded what this Iraqi War was all about.
Some American Idiot had the gaul to post this on Geeks and laugh about it. Just goes to show how downright stupid some Americans can really be. At some point in this boy's life (the one who posted it), I hope he gets the chance to empathize with the Iraqi boy this video is all about...and then laugh about it.
After all, Adversity makes men. Prosperity makes monsters.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A god without dominion, providence, and final causes, is nothing else but Fate and Nature.
Isaac Newton: Principia Mathematica (1687); Rules of Reasoning in Philosophy, Rule IV 
A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.
Une oeuvre où il y a des théories est comme un objet sur lequel on laisse la marque du prix.
Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time, part VII: Time Regained, chapter III, "An Afternoon Party at the House of the Princesse de Guermantes" French versionand English translation
Genius creates, and taste preserves. Taste is the good sense of genius; without taste, genius is only sublime folly.
Le génie enfante, le goût conserve. Le goût est le bon sens du génie; sans le goût, le génie n'est qu'une sublime folie.
François-René de Chateaubriand, Essai sur la littérature anglaise (1836): Modèles classiques 
You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come;Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.
Credited as Epigram: An Empty House (1727), or On a Dull Writer; alternately attributed to Jonathan Swift in John Hawkesworth, The Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin (1754), p. 265. Compare: "His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home", William Cowper, Conversation, line 303.
Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain.Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Samuel Rogers, The Pleasures of Memory (1792), Part I 
Never find fault with the absent.
Absenti nemo non nocuisse velit.
Standard translation: Let no one be willing to speak ill of the absent.
Sextus Propertius, Elegies, II, xix, 32
The hidden harmony is better than the obvious.
Variants: 1) The unapparent connection is more powerful than the apparent one; 2) The hidden harmony is better than the open one.
Heraclitus, Fragments, 54  and 
The sick in body call for aid: the sickIn mind are covetous of more disease;And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well.To know ourselves diseased, is half our cure.
Edward Young, "Night Thoughts," (1742-1745) Part IX 
What some call health, if purchased by perpetual anxiety about diet, isn't much better than tedious disease.
George Dennison Prentice [1807-1870], Prenticeana (1860)
And as Alexander Pope himself would say :
"To err is human, To forgive...divine."
Saturday, March 7, 2009
I live in a large hollow block. A square room averaging 5 x 5 sq. meters. It is made up mostly of cemented beams...cement for the ceiling, walls, and floors. Like I told you...a large hollow block is what it is. I can hear sounds from all over reverberating in my hollowblock room. Sounds from our next door neighbor when they bang their big tall iron gates. Same disturbing sounds when they bang their car doors.
Sounds from below my room...which seems to have quelled at the moment...that irritating sound of a tiny child speaking a dialect I couldn't figure out what. Anyway, it's just plain noise to me.
Never mind the ongoing construction work of a nearby condominium building which they shouldn't be building in a residencial subdivision. I can't fight the corruption that is City Hall on my own.
I also hear the sounds of my Logitech computer keyboard as I am typing away.
Other than that, there is silence in my room...except for the occasional ringtone reminder...that the grbage truck is due soon.
Sometimes, I welcome the silence. Make that on regular intervals, I welcome the silence. But silence doesn't come voluntarily or even regularly. Sometimes, I create noise to make silence. I have to be adamant to make it.
My mind is dictated by the people around me...as diverse as people who don't fit in our house. People who really have no physical place.
I am trapped in my own room thinking while I type, typing while I spend a little silence. I get silence by simply typing something. I get peace by simply typing and thinking. By turning a little naked and typing something.
I want to be happy. I want to be free. By writing or initiating something, I cannot be blamed for not trying at all.
People are dying here. It's not a home I live in. There is no warmth except in my auto-built sunroof but sometimes, the sun's too strong and I have to come down and rest in my red room.
The only maid we have is taking care of 1.) an 87-yr old jerk, most of the time, even to her; 2.) a 3-yr old blah-blah from Ani-i; 3.) a husband waiting aimlessly for an overseas job that never comes. He is in my opinion, nothing but freeloader aside from being eyesore. She also, aside from being cooky, cooks smelly fish in the morning and irritates me endlessly with her mind games. She is overworked from my own description. She came to our house to conquer. I'll tell you this. She cannot conquer me. I think she is working with an undiagnosed mental illness: retardation. Seriously. Add to that, righteous indignation that has no place in my heart.
My only sister, 7 years older, just let go of a personal therapist she was solely responsible for taking abroad to work. After a major operation last July, 2008, she didn't take a much-needed vacation from work, only a few weeks in Helsinki with needy friends. She is a doctor but since she considers me an unnecessary baggage, she will accept no help from me, only take here and there and just forget about it as if I owed her something anyway. I respect her. I think she's a good, functional person, just not someone to entrust my life with. Sad but true. Our best conversation is an emotional argument by her. She gets so emotional, which makes me conclude she really needs a doctor...of the mental kind. She too is dying but will not care to admit it to a little sister like me. She feels I deserve no sort of "homey" information. She's just as lost.
My 87-yr old perpetually jerky father is obviously dragging me down just by still being alive and eating off my remaining hold on sanity. Enough said. Senile at best. Senile at worst. Smiling, cursing senile nonetheless.
My 23-yr old nephew with cerebral palsy. He tugs at my heart but what good can I offer the poor boy, who has been through nothing but nothing at all. He was better of sleeping the days off...without care about the world or himself. I'll always be here for him though. He offers me inspiration and hope. Ironically.
My household is comprised of nothing a but a series of mentally ill patients, waiting for nothing but the daily allowance of increasing boredom in their lives. They seem to be happy with that. Maybe I should be too.
I too am dying. I have nowhere to go but keep myself locked up in a room...of my choosing more than 30 years ago...and force myself to be happy without doing anything at all. I've been transparent for the most part. My life is nothing but an open book but people still refuse to see the page where I actually fall off and turn into a hologram. If it's alright with you, I'd rather turn the pages for you and if I choose to close the book...maybe it's time for all of you read another one that's more appealing.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
"So this guy comes up to me and says: Whats the vision?